


The Good, The Buns, and The Dirty

by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Bad Puns, Double Entendre, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Funny, Happy Ending, Home Improvement, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Rabbits, Ridiculous, Silly, Single Entendre, for humor value only, natasha romanov - Freeform, sam wilson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 22:33:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13153401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: Bucky knew the apartment wasn't much to look at but, however old and rundown it might be, it was his.His apartment. His place.His.Unfortunately that also made the neighbourhisneighbour. Bucky hadn't started out thinking that way. No, he'd originally been pretty happy about tall, blond, and built, with his sunshine smile and sparkling blue eyes, who lived down the hall. But that was before Bucky found out he was a creeper.(AKA homonyms are important and you can never have too manydoublesingleentendres.)





	The Good, The Buns, and The Dirty

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by an [XKCD comic](https://xkcd.com/1871/), a kind of ridiculous conversation about competing for meat, and having to do some work on my bathroom. Sometimes ~~a lot of the time~~ I like to write purely ridiculous things :).

Bucky knew the apartment wasn't much to look at—which made it a perfect match for the building that held it. It was kind of old and kind of rundown, and the less said about the glittery gold and orange paisley wallpaper that graced the living room the better. But, however old and rundown and infected with smatterings of tack it might be, it was his.

 _His_ apartment.

Well, his and the bank's, but so far they'd proven to be disinterested overlords and as long as he was handing over a huge chunk of his pay every month he'd think of it as his, goddammit.

His apartment.

His place.

_His._

Unfortunately that also made the neighbour _his_ neighbour.

He hadn't started out thinking of it that way. No, his first thought when he'd caught a glimpse of the guy who lived down the hall had been whatever the I'm-a-grown-up-who-owns-my-own-place equivalent of _yowza_ was _._

Looking back on that kind of made him cringe.

As did the _hello_ and the _where have you been all my life_ thoughts which had followed the definitely-not-yowza. Thank god he'd never actually voiced any of them. It hadn't been past-Bucky's fault, though. He'd had no way of knowing tall, blond, and built, with his sunshine smile and sparkling blue eyes, was a creeper.

 

* * *

 

The day Bucky officially moved into his ( _his!_ ) new apartment had been a beautiful summer's day. Sun shining, birds twittering, the sky a glorious, brilliant blue. He'd trusted the bulk of his belongings to some _gentlemen_ Nat had pointed his way, gentlemen who were very large and extremely taciturn, and whose van was more nondescript than seemed strictly necessary for movers, but he'd learned with Nat it was best not to ask questions.

They were fast, at least, and efficient, and it hadn't taken long for everything he owned to make it from his old apartment to his new one.

Well, almost everything. There were some things he'd chosen not to trust to his new taciturn friends, a decision they'd greeted with dubious eyebrows, but hey. Known to Nat or not, he preferred to move his electronics and his fragile items himself.

The building foyer, which featured a pattern of cracks in the tiles, but was otherwise clean and tidy, had been empty when he'd carried the last box up from the car. On his return trip down to move the car, flattened boxes under one arm, he took his time to study the wall of mailboxes, the table piled high with junk mail strata, and the two unfairly attractive men—one of whom gave the impression of having been crafted from a tiny...no, make that a _large_ piece of the perfect summer's day, wrangled in from outside and given human form.

They were standing near the mailboxes, heads bent, studying a phone.

"That one's nice," the summer's day, who was tall and blond and possibly threatening the structural integrity of his shirt, said. "What do you think, Sam?"

"Not bad, not bad. I still think," the man who was apparently Sam, who was less summer's day and more bird of prey, all sleek angles and apparently knowing how to buy a shirt that fit, said, swiping his finger across the phone a few times, "these are nicer."

"Yeah, those are some nice buns."

Bucky slowly turned to face them. Because he had to have misheard.

"Not as nice as the ones I got yesterday." The blond frowned in concentration, fingers moving across the touch screen. He must have found what he was looking for, because he made a satisfied noise. "There, see?"

"Oh, yeah. _Very_ nice. I never can figure out how you get so close without them seeing you," Sam said, nodding in appreciation. "Makes for some good shots, though. You gonna send them to the network?"

"Of course."

Bucky made a noise and they both looked up. The blond smiled, warm and welcoming, and there was no denying it, it was a gorgeous smile. "Oh, hi, you must be the new guy, right? Moving in on four? I'm Steve, I'm down the hall from you. This is Sam, not down the hall from you, but you might see him around."

"Hey," Sam greeted, offering a friendly nod.

In other circumstances the fact that the stupidly attractive guy lived down the hall would be a matter of some interest to Bucky, but he was still a little stuck on what he'd overheard. He gestured at the phone, hitching his boxes higher. "What was that you were talking about, with the...buns."

"Oh, yeah," Steve replied, perking up. "We have a cute buns network. If you're interested?"

 "At this point _you_ basically have a cute buns network," Sam corrected with a quick grin.

"It's not just me."

"It's mostly just you."

Steve huffed. "As I was saying, cute buns network. There's no shortage around here. If you're interested, I can get you set up. Then if you see some you like, you just snap a pic and send it in. I'd love to see more variety than what I keep taking."

Bucky's mouth parted slightly as he looked back and forth between them. "Yeah, I don't think so. Not really my scene."

"If you change your mind, let me know. I'm in 418, but I'm sure we'll run into each other."

Oh good, he was on the same floor as a guy who thought it was okay to take sneaky photos of people's asses and share them around. Excellent. That was, it was excellent. Suddenly Steve wasn't so attractive.

"Or feel free to knock if you need anything—" Steve was saying, but Bucky talked right over him.

"I've gotta move my car." He strode out of the building, hanging on tight to his boxes.

Who did that? Outside of some frat-bro comedy starring Chad and his many kegstand-fuelled exploits, who went around taking photos of _people's asses_? _And_ _sending them to other people_? Although, now that Bucky thought about it, Steve did have kind of a frat-bro look to him.

"Ugh," he muttered.

 

* * *

 

The thing that baffled Bucky about Steve—because he saw a lot of Steve, what with being on the same floor as him and all—was that he didn't _seem_ like a creeper. Bucky generally had a decent sense for that kind of thing and Steve didn't give off the vibe.

Especially not when Steve was literally lifting disgusting, sticky, hideous vinegar-scented wallpaper remnants out of his arms.

How it happened was this.

There was only so long a man could live with glittery gold and orange paisley wallpaper glaring down at him while he tried to watch TV, and Bucky had hit his limit: three weeks, one day, and twenty-seven minutes, in case anyone was keeping track. That was the exact amount of time that passed between moving in and Bucky cracking, grabbing his phone, and Googling 'how to banish butt-ugly wallpaper'. Granted, the search had needed some refining before it hit anything useful and a bit more time passed before he could put the results into action. But once he started...

Multiple bottles of white vinegar, several plastic drop-sheets, and arms as weak as overcooked egg noodles from wielding the scraper later and his walls ( _his_ walls!) were stripped down to gratifyingly smooth plaster. Of course, the wallpaper had to go somewhere, and that somewhere was piled on the drop-sheets on his living room floor.

It was disgusting. Honestly, right now, it was a toss-up which was more disgusting, him or the wallpaper, but at least he couldn't get any grosser carrying it down to the basement. Because of course he'd have to carry it down the stairs. Shit like this wasn't allowed in the elevator. It was at this point Bucky discovered that, while he'd managed to acquire everything necessary to free his walls from the hideous monstrosity that had smothered them, he hadn't thought past that.

Past that to things like garbage bags.

"Ugh."

Leaving the wreckage until tomorrow wasn't an option—the place stunk already; it'd only get worse if he left it overnight—and if he tried to buy garbage bags looking like this he was pretty sure they'd call animal control. Or maybe the zoo. Or whatever branch of the government dealt with toxic waste, and he'd be damned if he was going to shower and change just to get filthy again.

Which was how he found himself precariously clutching an armload of sticky, dirty, dusty, vinegar-soaked wallpaper, which he'd tried to haphazardly wrap in a strip of drop-sheet, while he fumbled with the door to the stairs.

He scrabbled for the knob, feeling everything teeter, threatening to let go, the drop-sheet a bad idea since it was getting sweat-slippery against his skin, muttering, "Shit, shit, come on," as he grabbed at the teetering load, only to find it suddenly steadied.

"Easy, there. You okay?"

He peered over the top of the bundle to meet Steve's blue eyes, filled with steady concern and no small amount of amusement.

"Need a hand?"

"Oh sure, just help yourself to half the pile," he snarked, knowing there was _no_ _way_ Steve would. From what Bucky could see he was dressed nice, his far too tight, dark blue Henley _immaculate_ , a match for his perfect hair, and it showed off every line of his chest. _Ugh, why, no. Stop noticing, Bucky, come on. Remember the ass shots._ It helped, and suddenly Steve wasn't so attractive.

The pile of wallpaper detritus in Bucky's arms reeked of vinegar and old mold, maybe, unless that was _him_ —Bucky wasn't prepared to rule it out—and it was practically guaranteed to coat anyone who touched it in glue and dust and, if they were really lucky, flecks of gold and orange paisley, like some sort of wallpaper King Midas.

"Okay, let me just," and Steve gently guided Bucky out of the way, opened the door, and then deftly—Bucky was _right there_ and he couldn't figure out how Steve managed it—plucked away half his bundle, neat as could be, and Bucky was holding an entirely manageable amount. Bucky gaped at him. "Shall we?" Steve tilted his head at the doorway.

Bucky shut his mouth and started down the stairs.

When they hit the third floor, Steve said, "I never did catch your name?"

"Bucky," he said.

The silence that followed was incredibly familiar. Bucky sighed. "My mom had a thing for presidents. She named me after James Buchanan. My sisters grew up being weirdly grateful a woman's never been president, because they knew they'd have been stuck with something ridiculous, too."

"Why _Bucky_?"

"I dunno, you'd have to ask my sisters. They started it and I learned early on not to argue with them."

"I like it."

Bucky snorted.

"No, I do."

"So help me, if the next words out of your mouth are _it suits you_ I will feed you this wallpaper."

Steve chuckled. "Would I say something like that?" 

"I honestly have no idea what you'd say." It _was_ total honesty, even if judging by Steve's amused snort he thought Bucky was joking. They made the rest of the way to the basement and its door to the alley's dumpster in silence. "Right," Bucky told the wallpaper as he threw it in with extreme prejudice, watching with satisfaction as Steve followed suit. "And stay there."

He'd been right. Steve was a mess. His shirt was disgusting, damp and smeared with glue and dust, chunks of glittery orange and gold standing out bright against the blue. Curious, he waited to see how Steve would react.

Steve just grinned ruefully, plucked off a few of the larger bits and tossed them in the dumpster, then shrugged. "Since I've already christened the shirt, do you want help with the rest?"

"How do you know there's more?"

"I had to pull it out of my place, too. Only mine was lime green and yellow." He gave a mock-shudder.

"No. No, I'm good. I'll just take smaller loads."

"Are you sure?"

Steve looked weirdly hopeful. It made Bucky say, "I wouldn't say no to some garbage bags if you had them."

Steve did have them. Steve was happy to hand over a roll of extra-strong bags and when Bucky promised to pay him back, Steve waved it off with a, "Don't worry about it."

 

* * *

 

Bucky did pay him back, though, propping a roll of them against his door one night.

 

* * *

 

It wasn't like he could avoid Steve. They lived on the same _floor._ Bucky was very good at becoming engrossed in the mail, or his phone, or the ceiling of the elevator, when he found himself sharing it with Steve. Steve seemed to take the hint that Bucky wasn't one for casual conversation, but he always gave him a nod of greeting, or a friendly, "Hey," which was inevitably accompanied by a brief lift of his lips.

Of his stupidly attractive lips.

Stupidly attractive lips that belonged to a sleaze.

_Ugh._

They were in the elevator, Bucky counting the ceiling tiles, just to make sure they hadn't changed since the last time he'd counted the ceiling tiles—which was coincidentally enough the last time he'd been in the elevator with Steve—when Steve cleared his throat.

Bucky had spent one memorable summer as overnight manager at a motel. It had made him something of an expert in the throat-clear. Some were exactly what they seemed: the clearer had something stuck in their throat and wanted it out. Some were a hint that whoever the throat-clearing was directed at needed to stop whatever it was they were doing. And some, like this one for example, were a request for attention.

 _Those_ throat-clearings, they could vary in intensity, from a diffident _excuse me_ to a _cease your activities at once and serve me, peon_.

Steve's? Steve's had been polite, it had been quiet, it'd basically been the equivalent of a dog softly laying its head on your knee, waiting patiently for you to pay attention to it.

Bucky tilted his head sideways and lifted his eyebrows.

"I was wondering," Steve said, fiddling with the pile of green and gold flyers in his hand.

"Yes?"

"Do you like meat?"

Bucky stared at him.

Steve's expression was innocent, the next thing to beatific, like tiny songbirds arrived to help him dress in the mornings, but as Bucky kept on staring, the corner of Steve's mouth twitched.

"I'm only asking because, if you did like meat, I might be able to help you get your hands on some."

Bucky's eyebrows started judging. Hard.

Steve's grin escaped, making his eyes light up. Bucky's eyes narrowed.

"If you come down to Clint's bar—Slings and Arrows, on the corner?—you could get lucky, get your hands on some Grade A, high quality, all American beef."

Subtle the guy wasn't, but this did not come as a shock. It actually made Bucky feel _better_ , like his world was back in kilter. _Do you like meat._ Bucky snorted. _This_ was the guy who took creeper photos of people's asses. The whole-helping-with-the-wallpaper thing must have been an aberration.

Or...he _had_ made Bucky go first down the stairs and it wasn't ego talking; Bucky knew for a fact he had a great ass.

"Think I'll pass," he drawled and didn't look back as the elevator dinged for their floor and he headed down the hall to his apartment.

 

* * *

 

Bucky's day had not started out well. He'd go so far as to say it had started out badly. Slipping in a puddle of water and almost falling on his ass badly. He'd only caught himself by grabbing for the towel rack, which was now hanging onto the wall with more reliance on hopes and dreams than he was really comfortable with.

And his hair was fluffy.

He hated when his hair was fluffy.

Between cleaning up the mess in the bathroom, figuring out _why_ there was a puddle of water on his bathroom floor where water shouldn't be, shaking his fist at the shower and bemoaning the pains of apartment ownership ( _his_ apartment, goddammit!), which meant he couldn't make this problem someone else's problem, at least not without the application of many dollars per hour, all he'd had time to do was run damp fingers through it.

Which meant as soon as it had dried? Fluffy.

He had his phone pressed to his ear, whining to Nat, as he came into the building after work and made his way over to stand in front of the elevator. Not that Bucky would call it whining. _He'd_ called it expressing his frustrations in an adult manner. Nat was the one who'd called it whining.

"And it's not like I can just call someone out for every little thing. I don't think the bank's going to understand _sorry my mortgage was short this month, I had to give your money to someone else_."

Nat made a noise that could have been sympathy, or laughter, or might have been directed at something else entirely, since she was still at work and probably only sparing him half an ear.

A beautifully muscled arm, sleeve pushed up over the elbow, reached past him to hit the elevator call button, which he'd somehow neglected to do, and he followed it up to see Steve, who gave him a considering, questioning look. Bucky turned away from him. "This whole owning your own place is turning out to be a pain in the ass."

"You realise you haven't actually told me what's wrong?" Nat said.

"The shower's leaking water all over the floor. I just about went ass over tit this morning when I got out."

"Fix it?" she suggested blandly.

"Because I'm so handy," he deadpanned back at her. Nat just laughed at him. "Gotta go," he said as the elevator doors opened, and she laughed at him some more and hung up. He put his phone away and got on the elevator, Steve got on behind him, pushed four, and shoved his hands in his pockets, and Bucky stared at the floor.

The light above the door dinged, announcing that it was carrying them past the first floor, then past the second, when Steve broke the silence. "Do you want some cock?"

Bucky's eyebrows climbed into his fluffy hair and he slowly turned to stare at Steve. " _What_?"

The light above the door dinged for three, very quietly, like it really didn't want to draw attention to itself.

"I've got some spare if you want it."

Bucky ground his teeth together. "Okay, no. No. _Enough._ I didn't say anything about you taking creep-shots of people's asses and sharing them around, and buddy, I should have, because you may look like _that_ ," he waved his hand at all of Steve, "but shit like that makes you damn ugly. I left your little 'do you want some meat' alone—and subtle you ain't—but this is too damn much. Do I want some—"

The elevator dinged for four, the doors _flung_ themselves open, Bucky glared at Steve, then whirled and stomped off down the hallway, calling over his shoulder, "Christ, Steve, _class_ , you might want to look into getting some."

He could hear Steve hurrying after him, then Steve was past him, Steve was standing _in front of him_ , saying, "Wait, wait," half-laughing.

Bucky didn't appreciate people getting in his way, and he didn't appreciate being laughed at, not even at the best of times and this was definitely not the best of times. It also didn't help that Steve was stupid-attractive when he laughed, and right now Bucky didn't appreciate that either.

It probably showed on his face. Probably, hell, _definitely_ , since he was making zero effort to hide it, glowering at Steve who was standing in his way.

Steve's eyes got soft and that made _no sense_. "Sorry, sorry, just wait." He held up a hand and said, "Please," and the please wasn't laughing, the please was as soft as his eyes. It was...nothing like Bucky had ever expected to come out of Steve's mouth.

Against his better judgement he waited.

Steve pulled his phone out his pocket, fiddled with it, then held it out. "Here."

Bucky wrinkled his nose and took a disgusted step back, like Steve had offered him a slug.

"Please," Steve said again, soft, and how did he _do that_? "Just look."

Bucky took the phone but didn't take his eyes off Steve. "If this is a dick-pic, I will give serious consideration to punching you," he warned and Steve gaped at him, like the idea of an unsolicited dick-pic was completely outside his contemplation.

It was that more than anything that convinced Bucky to look down. He found himself staring at a photo of...an adorable bunny rabbit. It was black and white, with fluffy fur and long floppy ears, and he didn't know anything about rabbits but it looked pretty relaxed.

"You can swipe through them. There's nothing bad on there."

He did, and found more pictures of rabbits. A whole assortment of different sizes in a whole range of different colours, some with ears sticking up and some with ears that flopped over and what he guessed were moms with babies. He recognised some of the places the pictures had been taken: the park down the road, the grass outside the municipal building, the lawn of the nearby school...

Realisation dawned like a sledgehammer to the back of the head.

"The cute buns network," he said, dropping his chin into his chest while he waved the phone in Steve's general direction. _Oh my god._

"Yeah." Steve plucked the phone out of his fingers.

"It's pictures of rabbits."

"Yeah."

"Not pictures of people's asses."

"No." And there was the laughter again, barely contained.

Bucky closed his eyes with a groan.

"You okay there, Bucky?" Steve asked, and his voice was _shaking._ Steve was _laughing_ at him.

Bucky couldn't blame him. Bucky didn't blame him. Bucky was amazed Steve wasn't, he didn't know, doing something a hell of a lot worse than laughing.

"Can I ask—and I'll fully understand if you tell me to go to hell, here— _why_ you go around taking pictures of rabbits?"

"Sam's niece. She had to do a school project a couple of years ago for biology, collect pictures of something local. We kept taking them for her when her Instagram got popular. I don't know if she actually cares that much anymore, she got old enough to discover girls and I don't think rabbits can compete, but they're cute little buggers, so." Bucky peeked out from under his lashes and saw Steve shrug. "So I kept it up. We've got all these crazy colours around here, thanks to some asshole who dumped their pets a few years back, and I don't know, they're just cute."

Oh my god. Steve thought bunnies were cute. He looked like _that_ , and Bucky was suddenly hit full force with just how good he really _did_ look, he was grinning at Bucky with an irresistible touch of sheepishness, and he thought _bunnies were cute._

"Oh god. I have to move. I have to move out of this building and into a, a hole in the ground. Oh my god. I thought you were taking creep shots of people's asses and sharing them around." He buried his face in his hands. "A deep dark hole in the ground. Holy shit, I'm sorry. Steve, I'm so sorry."

"Accepted, but if we're being honest? I should admit I was teasing you with the whole _do you like meat_ thing."

Bucky lifted his head.

Steve's grin was pure mischief. "It was for a good cause. Clint's bartender's from Australia, and they do this thing there where they raffle off a meat tray to raise money for charity. Clint decide to give it a try, raffle off a tray full of high quality beef."

Bucky stared into the distance, re-examining the encounter from this new angle, remembering the way Steve's eyes had sparkled, his little grin. Take the _Bucky thought he was a creeper_ out of it, and it'd been kind of adorably cheesy. And his _smile_ , Jesus Christ. It was _lethal_. "What would you have done if I'd said yes?"

Steve shoved his phone back in his pocket, carefully not looking at Bucky. "Given you a flyer and...asked you to go with me? The bar was having a whole Aussie night."

Steve had been going to ask him out. Gorgeous and, shit, sweet, he was sweet, wasn't he? With the helping with the wallpaper, and the bunnies, and he wasn't even _mad_ right now, and Steve had been going to ask him out. "This is a nightmare." Steve's face fell and Bucky felt like he'd just kicked one of those bunnies. "No! No, fuck, that's not what I meant. You asking me wouldn't be a nightmare, that'd be, uh, pretty damn good, actually. Okay, maybe not at the time, but I didn't know you. Now, though." Bucky frowned. "Wait. Why would you still care? I thought you were a sleaze. I thought you were a creeper! I accused you of all sorts of shit that wasn't true and told you it made you _ugly_."

Steve's gaze sharpened. "You did, yeah. Because it made a difference to you. It mattered. I'm not stupid, Bucky. I know what I look like. You know how many people ever bother to look past it?" He lifted his brows a little. "You did." He paused and a smile slowly spread across his face. "Of course you got it _wrong,_ but, you know, it's the thought that counts."

"You look pretty amazing now." _Oh shit_. Bucky's eyes went wide. He'd said that out loud. "I'm moving to a hole in the ground, I swear to god."

Steve's almost-a-grin was back. "So, hole in the ground aside, what I'm hearing here is that you'll take some of what I offered before?"

"What you offered before—" ...oh, of course. _Of course_. "For my shower?" Steve nodded. " _Caulk_." Steve nodded again, eyes sparkling, corner of his mouth twitching as his grin fought to get out. Bucky gave in and grinned helplessly back at him. "Yeah, Steve, I'd love some, but you'll have to show me what to do with it."

 

* * *

 

Steve, it turned out, _was_ handy, having everything Bucky needed to fix his leaking shower.

"Comes of having owned my place longer," he explained, unpacking what he'd brought over onto Bucky's bathroom floor. Bucky, kneeling next to him, watched in fascination, because Steve was back to reminding him of a glorious summer's day. He waved a sharp implement in Bucky's direction. "Caulk scraper?"

"Keep that thing away from me!" Bucky laughed.

"Okay, no caulk scraper. Caulk remover?" He held out a tube.

"I've never had a problem," Bucky told him, deadpan, and Steve grinned.

It didn't take long to get rid of the old, cracked caulk, and it was gross, but nowhere near as gross as the wallpaper had been. Not just because it wasn't paisley and sparkles and dust and sticky glue, but because he was sitting on his bathroom floor in close proximity to Steve, who was, yes, sweet, and funny, and easy to talk to, and kind of a troll, his eyes glinting with mischief right before he made Bucky snort with laughter and oh, this was bad.

When Steve was satisfied—all the old caulk gone, the surface clean and dry—he set up the caulk gun and handed it to Bucky.

Bucky eyed him and Steve shrugged. "Your apartment, you should do the honours."

It took less than a minute, time in which Bucky laid down a wobbly, not likely to seal anything, line of caulk—although in his defense he'd never done this before—for Steve to say, "Your technique could use a little work."

Bucky lifted the caulk gun and shook his head. "Unkind, Steve. Unkind."

"Do you want help?"

"Are you seriously asking me if I want help guiding my caulk?"

"Yeah." Steve was smiling a little.

Bucky looked down at the caulk gun in his hands, then back up at Steve. "Okay. Show me."

Bucky wanted it on the record that there was absolutely nothing sexy about caulk. He and Steve were both dirty, a little damp, they both smelled musty and vaguely astringent, and there was nothing sexy about that, either.

Steve leaning in close, arms on either side of Bucky, because of course that's what he had to do if he was going to guide Bucky's hands? Steve wrapping his hands around Bucky's? 

 _That_ was an entirely different story.

Everything went very still. He could feel Steve's breath against his cheek, he was hyper-aware of Steve's chest, pressed gently against his back. If he turned his head he could...

"This is usually something I ask before I've got my hands on someone's caulk," Steve said softly, and Bucky choked back a laugh, "and tell me if I'm overstepping here, but in the interests of avoiding any future misunderstandings—I'm thinking about kissing you right now." 

"It'd be pretty stupid to say no." He hooked his pinkie fingers over Steve's. "What with your hands on my caulk and all."

Steve laughed quietly, Bucky turned his head, and Steve was kissing him. He hadn't been sure what to expect, hadn't really had much time to develop expectations, but it was soft, more invitation than demand, and Bucky answered, pressing into the kiss. He kept it gentle, didn't push beyond what Steve was giving him, because, caulk jokes aside, this was a whiplash shift from where he'd started the day thinking of Steve.

They broke apart with a little sigh, Steve's eyes practically glowing, and Bucky couldn't resist going back for seconds, chasing after Steve's mouth to quickly brush their lips together, before leaning back. Of course leaning back meant leaning back into Steve's arms, which were still firmly around him, his hands still folded around Bucky's.

"Yeah?" Steve asked, searching his face.

"Yeah," Bucky replied, then nudged him. "Come on, let's get this finished." He waited a beat while they lined the nozzle up, then said, deadpan, "I hate it when my caulk dries out."

Steve's burst of laughter doomed the line to jagged lumpiness, but Bucky honestly didn't care. Some things were more important than straight caulk.

 


End file.
